Shakespearean Twins
by celticgirl101
Summary: Imagine if Juliette had a twin sister, separated at birth. What if the both of them are discovered by Warner? Follow the life of a seventeen year old girl with a deadly touch. Forced out of society and has had to go through unimaginable horrors. Will it affect her in the long term? Will it be Juliette that Warner chooses, or her twin? Shatter me, Tahereh Mafi.
1. Chapter 1

**I read the Shatter me Trilogy years ago and I've always wanted to do a Fanfic. I like Juliette's character and everything but I always thought she was quite self-centred, especially when she was in Omega Point. I thought it would be fun to create a new character that is the total opposite and see how all the other characters adjust in the novel. Enjoy.**

* * *

I play with the frayed ends of the tired red ribbon wrapped around my wrist. I sigh at the miniature bell, broken and dangling from the ribbon. I force myself to tear my eyes away from the thing, looking out of the window enlaced with bars. It's the only window in the room, yet hardly any sunlight seeps through. I force myself to look out everyday, hoping to see something fly by. Nothing ever does, not anymore.

My thoughts are distracted by the siren. I look out the window one last time, then remove myself from the lonely corner seat in this communal room. Everyone knows the routine. We wake then we wait. The doors of our block open all at once, then we walk in a line to a room with one window and a door with _Communal room_ written on it; minus a few letters. I never speak, I haven't decided whether this is a hospital or an insane asylum, but I'm leaning toward the latter.

Men and women of all ages live on block zero, just like me. Each of us with our own dark cell, with the same rusted beds and stone walls. No windows, but a single dim light bulb that I can never reach. But when I return to my cell, something's changed. Someone's been in here and added another broken old mattress. I stare at it for a long time, but then the metal door closes shut behind me and I hear the bolts turn and lock on every door. No one works here, I don't think. I've never seen anymore that isn't confined to one of these cells, but I sometimes here them laugh. Although, that could be someone on my block.

I look at the other bed, contemplating what it could mean. The obvious is, that I'm getting a cellmate. But no one ever gets a cellmate on this block, anymore. _No one_.

I slide to the floor, my head resting against the cold wall. Suddenly a shiver runs through me and I wrap the long and oversized, knitted cardigan around myself. I knock my tattered, white tennis shoes together, passing the time. My long and snug fitted pants are warm, luckily, but my rough t-shirt isn't. Although most of the time, I don't notice. Either too tired or confused or hungry to ever notice.

I try and sleep, but the screaming never stops. The middle aged woman in the cell next door, she never stops screaming. Even in the Communal room, she stifles around, screaming. Sometimes, I join her.

My thoughts remain on the other bed as I drift off into nothingness.

* * *

I find myself waiting when I wake. Honestly expecting them to slip someone into my cell while I am asleep, but that never happened. I sit in the corner of my dimly lit room, waiting for hours. But time passes quickly in this place. These walls may be made of thick concrete and heavy grey stone, but they are not sound proof. Time flies, filled with tearful screams, shouting, and most of all, crying. I often drift off into my own little existence. I simply close my eyes and try and ignore everything happening around me.

It only ever works half of the time.

I find myself drifting off to sleep again, hugging my knees and my back resting against the wall. But a sudden sound makes me move, and my eyes find the door. I search it for answers, but find nothing. Surly it isn't time for a shower yet, is it? I must have lost track of time.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand, then the sensation of someone watching me follows. I hear the delicate sound of metal moving, then the bolts of my door open. A young man tumbles in, almost ramming into the hard wall. He turns and watches the door close shut, sealing him in.

Blonde hair and a muscular face with dark eyes, wearing a navy blue T-shirt and khaki cargo pants tucked into shin-high black boots, turns to me. His left arm is tattooed and a single scar resides over his right eyebrow. I don't move for a long moment, my arms still hugging my knees. My new cellmate studies me, his facial expression then changes. He slumps against the wall and lands on one of the mattresses, his face pales slightly. For a moment I'm worried he might throw up, but he doesn't. His eyes are empty as he looks at my face, shock resides on it.

My eyes narrow, I can't help it. I hate being stared at.

Is this just shock? He doesn't seem afraid of me, although if he knew what I am, I'm sure he would be.

"Did you get moved from another block?" I ask, my voice filling the small space. Rougher then I intended.

After a moment, his eyes find the wall, then me again. Whatever just happened, it's as if he had just forgotten it all.

"No," he coughs. "I just got here." His voice is smooth and low, it reminds me how much I miss human interaction.

I can't ignore the little voice in my head, telling me something isn't right. Why would he be put straight into block zero? Is he a killer? Is he insane? He'll probably kill me in my sleep.

"Why are you here?" I ask. "In block zero, I mean," I clarify. I've learnt from my mistakes, the slightest little thing can set off anyone here. Even how you phrase a question, so I better be carful. Besides, I don't think I can deal with someone's back story, not now. I can't bear to hear how much more shittier the world has gotten since I've been in here, how so many people are suffering out there.

My cellmate doesn't answer, but he understands what is going through my head because he says, "I'm not insane."

I sigh and let my head lean against the wall, "That's what we all say."

* * *

Knock. Knock.

Cellmate is on his feet. The door opens, just as always.

"What's happening?" His voice anxious.

I'm on my feet with a small smirk on my face, Cellmate is going to have to get used to this. "It's shower time."

I pull his shirt and drag him into the corridor just in time, the door closes behind us with a loud thud. I let go of his shirt and his hands search for me in the darkness, "Stop," I whisper. He stops immediately. "Take hold of my cardigan and shut up, okay?"

He does as I tell him. I feel my way to the showers, my hands gliding over each closed door in this hell hole. I feel the rough stone walls in every corridor, but when a scream rises from one of the rooms, Cellmate leaves go of my cardigan. I've lost him.

"Hey," I hiss. "Where the-"

"What was that?" Cellmate's hand catches my cardigan again and I finally reach the showers. I don't answer, there's no point. He'll get used to the screams, eventually.

I remove my shoes in the darkness and feel the cold tiles under my feet. I guide Cellmate to the shower head and turn it on for him. I turn in his general direction and instruct him on what to do.

"The water will run for three minutes and it's cold," I frown. It's always cold. "Just dump your clothes anywhere but don't get them wet, it takes forever for them to dry. Leave them somewhere you can find them easily, the lights never turn on in here or out in the corridors," I hear him sigh into the darkness. I'm already half finished when I hear him whisper _thank you._

In exactly 157 seconds I've wrung my long hair and I'm slipping back into my outfit. I slip on my tennis shoes and Cellmate follows suit. The sirens ring and we're shortly back in our cell, the metal door closes shut and we won't be let out for another twelve hours. It's oddly warm in the cell, it must mean the weather outside is too. I find my little corner and sit there, combing through my hair with my fingers.

Cellmate seems lost, he doesn't know what do to with himself. He stands, then paces, then sits, then does it all again. I feel for him. I was like him when I was first sent to these kind of places. I sigh and let my hands drop, I have to help him somehow. It's only fair.

"Stop pacing," I tell him. He's hesitant at first, but finally sits on one of the rotting beds. He seems frustrated.

"Things are different here," I tell him. "This is block zero, we're treated very differently to the other blocks. Two knocks mean shower time, the doors open electronically I guess. I've never seen any workers or nurses or cleaners, there's no one," I look at him. "One knock means Communal room, everyone gets let out for an hour. The sirens go off, the doors open, then we stand in a line and all walk together to the room."

"Do we have to go?" Cellmate interjects. The thought of being crammed into a room with insane people doesn't seem to be appealing to him.

"No," I tell him honestly. "No one's going to force you, but the Communal room has a window. It's covered with bars but sunlight still seeps through. Just saying, it's probably in your best interest to join us. If you haven't already noticed, we don't have a window in here," I look at the walls I so perfectly know. He doesn't seem too happy about it, but agrees.

"Don't talk to anyone, don't look at anyone, be invisible while you're in there," I advise. "You should be fine."

"This is going to be fun," his voice laced with sarcasm. He tussles his blonde hair, it must be a reflex by now. He's kinda beautiful.

"You'd be happy to hear we only get let out once a day, two knocks today means it'll be Communal room tomorrow," I tell him. He looks relieved, I think. It's not easy to read this guy.

I blow out a long breathe, tired of this reality. "We get fed once a day, maybe two if we're lucky. You'll want to wait about four minutes before you even touch the plate, or you'll get a nasty ass burn if you do," I look at my hand, the long burn scar never fading. I've learnt from my mistakes.

"That's pretty much it," I tell him. I smirk, "Just try not to go insane."

Cellmate studies me for a long time. "Will you quit looking at me," I tell him, my eyebrows furrow together.

"What's so different about this block?" He asks, slowly. "Block zero," he whispers.

"Everyone on this block, we're the worst of the worst," I smirk, I feel kind of proud to be a renowned block zero inmate. I probably look insane right now.

"There are other blocks here? How many?"

I blow out another breathe, thinking back. It's been a long time. "Five. There are five, yeah. Everyone gets put in block five first. It depends on your behaviour, who or what you are if you stay there. The worse you are, the number decreases. It stops at zero. Ground floor," I cross my legs. "But," I cock my head. "You weren't put in five."

He knows I'm sceptical, he knows I don't trust him. But this guy plays it cool, "Maybe things have changed."

Things will never change. They'll always treat us like garbage, like some disease. They'll always treat _me_ like a disease. I thought I was, I thought I was this monster. This thing no one loved. They've never told me otherwise. But the world isn't nice to everyone, especially someone like me. But I've come to realise I don't care. I don't need the world. I've been by myself my entire life, and I'm still alive. I must be doing something right. I've accepted who I am, I like who I am. I'm not insane. I'm not good. I'm not bad. I just am.

"Why were you moved down here?" He asks quickly.

"You ask a lot of questions, stranger."

"I'm a curious person, stranger."

"Curiosity killed the cat," I say. Silence. "Some people didn't get along with me on block five, I got moved down. That's all to it," I sigh.

"Is it really that different? I mean, it's still an insane asylum," he points out.

I shrug, "They get more freedom on block five. Their cells have windows and they get let out twice a day," I'm trying to remember. "Four isn't much different. I'm not sure about three or two, but there isn't much difference between us and one, although they still get cellmates, I suppose."

"Still? What's so big about having cellmates here? I mean we're cellmates," he questions me.

I look away from the dark eyed guy. I've answered his questions, but this is one thing I am not bringing up. Curiosity isn't taken well down here, and I am not about to bring that memory back up.

"Something happened, didn't it," he decides to sit on the floor, closer to me.

"Why do you want to know?" I turn to him, frustrated. "Why are you asking so many questions?"

He pauses, "Was it that bad?"

"Fine," his curiosity will drown him in this place. "A year ago, everyone on this block had a cellmate. For some reason, one of the women in the cell next door was removed and replaced by a some guy with black hair. Two days in, we were all let out to the Communal room and then everything went to shit. The new guy attacked his cellmate, it was chaos in that room," I tell him, trying not to relive the memory.

"Was she okay?" His eyebrows furrow.

"He killed her, stranger. Then he turned on us, got through some people and then came after me," he didn't stand a chance the moment he touched my skin. He was an evil man, but even in those circumstances, I didn't want to use what I had on him. He gave me no choice. "I never saw him after that but everything changed. All cellmates were removed, my cellmate was removed. One confined to each cell. _He_ was replaced by Screamer, next door." It was silence now, she was either asleep or her voice had broken again. But it'll start up, it always does.

"But yet, here you are. Cellmate," I narrow my eyes. "Don't let her screams drown out your thoughts, stranger. That's how you go insane in this place," my voice a dangerous whisper.

I turn away from him, suddenly tired from my burst of frustration and anger. I don't even want to look at him anymore. I crawl onto the mattress, facing away from him. Something about him doesn't feel right, I know something isn't right.

* * *

Some time had passed without a word. A distant cry could be heard and the sound of breathing keeps me awake.

"Hey, stranger," his words are a whisper in this dim cell. "My name is Jonathan."

A moment passes, then I sighed deeply. "I'm Ophelia."

I haven't heard my name be spoken in such a long time, I almost miss it.


	2. Chapter 2

Six days flash by with nothing much done in between. Of course, we're locked up in an insane asylum so there isn't much to do but relish in the horror of this place. We have casual conversations now and then. We talk about random topics like the weather and food. Ironic, really. Unsurprisingly, I still don't trust him. The only personal information I know about him is his height and name. The only information I've told him about me is my first name. I guide him around, ensuring he doesn't get himself killed. I've seen enough death to last me a life time, I don't need Jonathan to be added to that horrendous list.

The cell is awfully cold today, the both of us shiver where we sit. I distract myself by adjusting the ribbon on my wrist. Jonathan eyes me from where he's sitting.

"What is that?" he asks. Purple shadows make his eyes even darker. He must not be sleeping much.

"It's a ribbon," I tell him.

"Sentimental?" he cocks his head to the side. A small smile appears on his face. It's contagious.

"Yes," I sigh. "I was given a little chocolate bear when I was 8. This was around it's neck," I shake my thin wrist. The broken bell makes no sound. "I've had it on my wrist ever since. The bell is a bit mangled, though."

I smile at the memory. It's one of the happiest memories I have. I can't remember if it was a special occasion or not, all I remember is that golden bell. The chocolate was sweet and bitter, it tasted heavenly, like nothing I had ever eaten. I tried to make it last forever, but it was gone within days. The red of the ribbon was so vibrant, so alive. Nothing like the dirty rusted colour it owns now. I don't really care about that, though. I can't imagine myself without it's simple existence. Some days, I feel like it holds my sanity.

The door crashes open and 5 people swarm into the room, rifles pointed at our chests.

"What the-"

I'm on my feet. Jonathan is on his feet. I'm not feeling very brave right now, so I don't do anything stupid.

"HANDS UP, FEET APART, MOUTHS SHUT. DON'T MOVE AND WE WON'T SHOOT YOU."

They back me into a corner, Jonathan into another. The armed men shout muffled words at me, a barrel of a gun 3 inches from my face. I lift my hands in surrender, because I'll die if I don't, apparently. I have half the mind to disobey them. I want to see what happens. Why now. Why are they here? After all this time. Maybe this is it. Maybe my 17 years are up.

One of them put the barrel of their gun up against my chest. I feel the biting cold of the steel through my shirt. I ball my hands into fists. I want to dare him to shoot me.

"She doesn't cry," one laughs.

"We'll make her," another joins.

The butt of a gun connects with my face, rendering me silent on the stone cold floor.

* * *

I wake with a raging headache. My right cheekbone feels double it's regular size and is painful to touch. A sharp ache renders me still for a moment. In the dim light of my new cell, the blue and yellow bruises look like a disease on my pale skin. There's a tin of water and a tin of food set off to the side and I inhale the cold contents, suffocating on my own thoughts.

Jonathan is nowhere.

I am alone, 4 walls no more than 10 feet in every direction, the only air creeping in through a small slot in the door. Just as I make a move to stand, the heavy metal door opens widely. A guard with 2 rifles strung across his chest looks me up and down. He stands, stunned for a moment.

Pause. "Out."

The guard's voice is thick and deep, his eyes unreadable. He looks only a few years older then me, his dark hair cut close to the crown, tattoos snake up his arm.

The realization cracks me in half, paralyzing me for a moment. I could almost laugh. How did I miss it? I was one of them before.

Jonathan crosses the threshold, a rifle pointed at my chest. His features are tight and controlled, he's unreadable too. They're all the same. Of course they are, they're soldiers. I want to hit him. I want to hit the both of them and escape this nightmare. Maybe this is inevitable. Maybe this is my end.

He leads me out of the cell and gestures toward a wide hallway made of grey stones. I mumble how much of a _dick_ he is under my breath, it only seems to anger him more.

"Move." Jonathan thrusts the gun into my back, making me stumble forward. He does it again and again until a boot kicks my back in. I land hard on the floor, a dull ache goes through my entire body. An unhealthy sounding click jolts from my knee as I am forced to kneel.

Bright artificial bulbs shine on my face, I bring my hand up and shield my eyes away from it.

"Burrow, dim the lights." The command is strong, full of authority. "I need to see her face." It sounds almost urgent.

I lift my head to see who's speaking, but flinch when I find him kneeling in front of me. I'm looking into his soft emerald eyes as he touches my hair and brushes it away from my face. If I wasn't looking so intently at his beautiful face, I wouldn't have noticed. But I do notice. I see his eyes widen, shock registered there. He might have even gasped a little. I shake my head. This man is the enemy.

I slap his clothed arm away. He steps back like a kicked puppy. Another boot collides with my spine, sending my battered body toward the floor. I wheeze and inhale as much oxygen as my lungs will allow.

He's sitting in a worn out leather chair when I look up. He's staring at me.

"Juliette," he whispers. It sounds like a question he never wants answered.

I rub my forehead, searing pain renders me silent for a moment.

"Who the hell is Juliette?" I ask from the floor.

I squint closer at the man in the chair only to realize his suit has been adorned with tiny colored patches. Military mementos. His last name is etched into the lapel: Warner.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see one of his men hand him a thin file. He glances at me before he tares it open with his gloved hands. _Gloved._ He's wearing gloves. I take a deep breath and prepare for the worse.

"Ophelia Clarke," he glances at me. _Does he honestly expect me to answer?_ "Given up for adoption only a few hours after your birth. No names given for birthparents, only a nurse; Margaret Clarke. In and out of foster homes, then orphanages, different schools, messy lawsuits, hospital records." Warner tosses the file at me. It lands in front of my knees. Papers, documents, my whole life sprawled across the floor. I don't look at them. "Most of your life is documented in those papers. I've been studying them for a very long time, but something doesn't add up, Ophelia." I hate the way he says my name. "After the age of 11 and up until age 16, there is no sign of you. Nothing, nowhere. Then suddenly you're a soldier in Sector 53. Then you're here."

I confuse him. He wants to know who I am. Warner has this need in his eyes, a wanting look I have never seen before. I fade away forgetting who I am. Kneeling on this stone cold floor, I decide I will never let him know of my difficult life. I can use this to my advantage. I will be free.

"I know your secret, Ophelia." His voice is cold and haunting. "I know why you are here. You were a very difficult girl to find."

I don't tell him how I feel. I don't tell him how the room is spinning. I don't tell him how every part of my sanity is falling away. I've been through this before, just like all of his men in this room. Their faces controlled and unreadable. I am not a book he can just pick up and study. I will never be his.

"Does the name Juliette Ferrars mean anything to you?"

If not for the look in his eyes, I would lie. I would act stupid and lost. Maybe I'd break out some tears. But I can't because there is something about him I already hate, but a part of me wants to know more. A fraction of me wants to know what he knows.

"Ferrars is my middle name."

His eyes clear and harden. He stands, an iron rod as his spine. He tosses Jonathan a pair of black gloves. "You're going to need these."

Jonathan slides them on, his dark eyes on me.

"Take her." Warner stands tall, unflinching. The command sounds like a death sentence.

A part of me wants to know more, but we don't always get what we want. Especially me, especially now. That is the way it has always been and I am happy not knowing. They are not taking me anywhere. I am not going to be someone's pet or slave. Not now, never again.

I think I see a bird fly by through the tiny window in the corner of the room.

"Over my dead body," I spit through clenched teeth.

This time, I see it coming. I shift to the side and a hard boot meant for me, slams the floor. A devious kick sends him flying to he floor, cupping himself. The room is no longer quiet as everyone lurches into action. I grab the guards rifle and I'm up on my feet. I feel something seize my leg and I turn, using the butt of the gun to smash his nose. Another two come flying forward. Everyone is dodging my skin, grabbing me only where I'm clothed. They know, they all know. I side step one and run out the same way I came in. I'm surrounded by terrorized darkness, a single light at the end of the hallway. I bolt to it, my side screaming. I'm suddenly thrown against a wall, my head turning. I grunt as a blow to my side leaves me immobilized for a moment.

Blood is gushing from somewhere on my body. "Son of a-"

I tackle his legs, angry. Nothing is going to stop me from escaping this prison.

I kick something fleshy in the gut and hear a wheeze. I'm up on my feet again, but a few steps in and I'm surrounded.

It happens too fast. I'm shoved against a wall. I fight but something hard collides with face. I feel the skin on my lip break and begin to bleed. I feel numb. My hands are bound behind me and I'm led through dark hallways to a unknown destination. Three of Warner's men follow my foot steps, Jonathan grasping my cuffed wrists. I thrash and catch a glimpse of Warner. A lion in a bed of tigers. He looks amused. This is a game to him.

I'm terrifyingly excited when I see the door open at the end of a hallway. I haven't been outside for over a year. I haven't felt natural light or a cold breeze on my skin for over a year.

I feel the icy cold droplets of rain hit my bare skin first. I gasp at the sensation. I nearly choke as I inhale the clean air, breathing it in as quick as I can. It's light and plentiful, nothing like the stuffy and used oxygen of the asylum. The furious gushes of wind whip my extensive waves, leaving it a tangled mess.

I'm quickly escorted to a tank, but I plant my feet in the solid concrete floor. I refuse to budge even when Jonathan attempts to drag me.

"Come _on_."

"Leave her for a minute, Stevens," I hear someone say. "She's been locked up in that shit hole for God knows how long."

I turn to see dark eyes and dark hair through the storm of rain, but he's quickly forgotten when I look up at the open, grey sky. The delicate clouds remind me of soft pillows. The burning sun is hidden behind them, but a few beams of light hit the wasteland surrounding me. The dead tree's remind me of a graveyard, but they're the most beautiful things I have seen in over a year.

By the time I'm in the tank, my clothes are entirely soaked and my hair is dripping rain. My bones are cold and I shiver with a smile on my face. _Rain._ I'll never get enough of it.

Warner's men are soaked, too. The driver is pissed, cursing about how cold he is. Jonathan also seems pissed, but the young man with the dark hair and dark eyes in the passengers seat, almost looks perplexed. While I'm looking out the window at everything in awe, I feel him steal glances at me. I ignore the persistent man and focus on everything on the other side of the rectangular window.

The entire world has been stripped of it's clothing. The whole world is dead. There is no warmth to the grey background. There are no street signs, no stop signs planted in the broken pavements. The only decoration on this plain canvas are a few metal boxes stuffed full of machinery and lying posters plastered on walls. They read; Reestablish Equality. Reestablish Humanity. Reestablish Hope, Healing, and Happiness. Off in the distance I notice smoke rising. A lonely fire, burning endlessly.

The Reestablishment ended us all.

Even know, I remember life before the asylum. They lied. They lied to the entire human race. They said the solution to all our greed, overindulgence and gluttony was in self-control, in minimalism, in sparse living conditions; one simple language and a brand-new dictionary filled with words everyone would understand. In no time at all, everything was being eradicated. Books were being burnt. Languages forced to be forgotten. Historical artefacts, destroyed. No more pointless holidays where man kind could rejoice. Personal convictions were what nearly killed us all, is what they said. No more of anything and everything. Nothing was given to us but cold brutality.

I don't know how many minutes, or even hours pass by before I see any form of life through the tiny window of this tank. Dull, tired corpses mill around a quiet street. They all look starved, they all look broken. _What has this world become?_

We pull up to an enormous structure. From the outside it looks like a bland building, inconspicuous in every way but its size, grey steel slabs comprising 4 flat walls, windows cracked and slammed into the 15 stories. It's plain and unidentifiable, it bares no insignia. Political headquarters camouflaged among the masses, per usual. Innocence is always their first line of defence. If ever an attack, the people would suffer first. The thought has always made me want to gag.

This is where I am going to die.

One by one, everyone climbs out of the tank in their turn. The door to my left opens and I'm dragged out by the handcuffs binding my wrist together. Again, the three soldiers surround me, Jonathan pushing me along. The big double doors come into view and I panic. _I am not going in there_. I struggle against Jonathan's grip and I scream in frustration as the soldiers hold my arms in place, both of them assist Jonathan's efforts to get me inside.

A blunt object collides with my face; a butt of a gun if I had to guess. The soldiers let go of my clothes in enough time to let me fall to the floor. I hear nothing but the rustling of wind and a cry off somewhere in the distance. I let my mind wonder for a moment, remembering all the cries I have caused with my own bare skin. I hate myself for it.

Blood spills from my mouth, the metallic taste reminds me of the old, rusted beams I had loved to climb as a child. They, too, made me bleed.

I spit on the dirty ground, dying the bare floor crimson. The sight of it makes me angry.

"You're a real dickhead, Jonathan," I say through gritted teeth as I'm hauled up to my feet. "You should know that."

He doesn't say a word, that makes my angry, too. His eyes become hard but he says nothing. He doesn't hit me again, which is surprising. My fate is inevitable, so I let them guide me. My eyebrows furrow as we enter the building. The sight stops me breathing and I feel my own features turn into a snarl.

Thousands of dollars wasted on marble floors and marble walls. The floor is lined with crimson Persian rugs, dyed red by the dead. Horrifyingly beautiful stands display decorum paid for with hundreds of thousands of dollars in medical aid. Ten years worth of food hangs over head my head in crystal chandelier form. I feel the artificial heat pouring in through air vents and think of children screaming for clean water. They even have the nerve to stick dirty dollar bills on a canvas and hang it on their walls, while hundreds, thousands, millions of their people die.

Before I know it I'm jumping at the decoration, wanting to tear it down, spit on it. I'm screaming and thrashing as the image of dying children rushes through my mind. People are grabbing at my clothes. Dragging me somewhere, hopefully to my death. I scream again, kicking at whatever I can. Soldiers fill the hallway trying to catch a glimpse of the commotion. When they see me, they stop and hold their guns tighter to their bodies.

 _Good_. I hope I'm frothing at the mouth. I hope my eyes are black and my dripping blood, dark.

I hope I look insane.


	3. Chapter 3

Every single joint in my body aches. My throat feels as though it's been rubbed bloody with sandpaper. My eyes sting with cold, hysterical tears. My heart is blackened with hate and frustration. My blood boils with anger and resentment. This is me, the new me. I never knew insanity would feel so right.

We're standing in front of a door. Jonathan takes a key card and swipes it against a black pane of glass fitted into the small space beside the handle, and the stainless steel door slides out of place. I'm pushed inside. The door clicks behind him. Jonathan cuts the band holding my hands together. I turn, holding my reddened wrists, and glare at him.

"Is Jonathan even your name?" I ask him the question that's been on my mind since the moment I realised he was a liar.

He sighs and glances at the plush carpet. He finally looks at me, "Yes. My name is Jonathan. Although no one's calls me that," he says. "Not anymore," he adds.

I see something in his eyes. His voice, a little sad. A hint of regret, even. Maybe, he remembers his mother's or father's voice calling to him, calling him by his childhood nickname. Before the world turned sour and unsuitable for children to be raised as children, of course. Yet, the memory of the Jonathan that drove the butt of his gun against my face, still remains with me.

"Then what do I call you?" I ask, harsher then I truly intended.

"Jon."

I turn away from him, removing my long knitted cardigan. I place it on the queen-size bed and look around this lavish room. The walls are painted a beautiful cream colour, the carpet almost matching. An effortless crystal chandelier hangs from the ceiling; it almost hurts to look a it. An armoire made of fine wood and glass, flush against the wall. A door to my right, ajar and ready to be explored.

I stand and inch toward the blackened door. I feel the smooth doorframe with my rough hands and push it open with my fingertips.

A light flickers on, displaying tile flooring and cream walls. A sliding door shower and a white stone sink reside in the corner, a rack with soft towels beside it. The familiar bathroom is decorated with flowers the colour of the sky on a winter's morning. They are both beautiful and tragic to look at; I can't stand them.

I grit my teeth when my eyes land on the rectangular mirror above the sink. I haven't seen my reflection in years. I was disgusted by myself back then, nothing has changed since. I feel my face for the dry blood, swollen skin, open cuts. I fear if I see myself like this, I'll break. Maybe this is what I deserve. Maybe this is fate, cruel truth.

This is hell.

"Why am I here?"

I turn to Jon, he hasn't moved from his post. His eyes watch me with fascination and undivided attention.

"You have to get ready," he tells me. He's being vague deliberately, I know he is.

" _Why_ am I here, Jon?"

Now, he looks uncomfortable. Understandably, my first thought is he's uncomfortable because I have the capability to kill him by just touching his skin. I'm angry. Jon is the only other person in the room. It could happen, but Jon isn't afraid. He's uncomfortable. _Why_? I always though I was a good judge of character. Now, I am no longer certain I have that talent.

"Please," it's the first time I have ever heard him say that word. "You have to get ready. There are clothes for you in there," he points at the armoire. "You're both expected for dinner tonight."

I look at him sharply. "Both?"

He stiffens. His lips turn into a firm line, and for some unknown reason I know Jon won't be saying anything else about the matter.

"Both?" I repeat.

"You are expected for dinner."

Jon walks out the door and doesn't look back. Warner must have another prisoner locked up in this hellhole. Who am I kidding, everyone in this building is a prisoner in one way or another.

I remove my shoes and let my bare feet touch the carpet. It's softness bothers me so I leave it behind and walk into the bathroom. I close the door behind me and contemplate whether I actually need a shower. But when I notice the dust, dry dirt and blood on my skin, I sigh. I strip. Abruptly aware of the mirror, I stay out of it's way. When I look back at my pile of clothes and notice the stark contrast between the colour of my clothes and the clean tile, I find that it bothers me. Again, I sigh and open the door.

I stop. _Jon is probably out there._ I clothe myself with a clean towel for the time being and throw my dirty clothes on the bed. I shut the bathroom door behind me and wash.

I opted for a warm shower for the first time in over a year, but when I feel the hot water on my skin, it irritates me. I settle for lukewarm water and I let it drown me. I scrub at my skin with purple soap that smells of lavender and sweet honey. I wash my hair with soap only meant for hair. I watch the clean water turn dark and crimson as I clean my skin. I feel the sting of the open cuts burning as I wash them. I lean my head against the shower door and let the noise carry me away. Only when the water turns cold do I get out and dry myself off. I wrap the towel tightly around my body and open the door.

Jon stands there, hands behind his back. He catches my eye for the smallest second and then turns away.

"Where are my clothes?" My eyes fly from the empty bed to Jon.

"I was ordered to dispose of them," he says, unable to look at me.

" _Ordered_? By who?" It is a stupid question; one that I know the answer to. I ask anyway.

"Warner," he says the name almost like a sigh. "I've been instructed to tell you that you must choose something from the armoire."

I walk cautiously to the beautiful piece of statement furniture, and open it. Inside are an array of different shoes and dresses, some mid length and some short. All of them are styled differently, made of unique martials. Long sleeves, short sleeves and spaghetti straps. The dresses are sorted from lightest to darkest, but it doesn't make much difference. I notice most of the dresses are a darker shade anyways. Every single one looks incredibly too small.

"I can't wear these," I think aloud.

"What will you do?" Jon asks. "Have dinner in that towel?"

" _Shit_ ," they have me in a freaking box here. I ruffle through the drawers and grab essentials. I snatch the first long sleeved dress I see and storm off into the bathroom.

It's by far the tightest piece of clothing I have ever worn. The dress is black and comes in at my waist. The entire top half of the dress is made of fine lace that irritates my wrists. It's very fitting and it clings to my skin. The bottom half is smooth and silky. It hangs richly and loosely much too high above my knees. The dress hugs my body it all the places I hate.

I comb my hair, facing away from the mirror. By the time I step out of the bathroom, my hair is somewhat dry and in it's usual loose waves.

My shoes are gone, I should have expected that. I open the armoire, not knowing where else to go. The first thing I notice is that every single pair of shoes sitting on their wooden platform, are heels. I have never worn heels before. The thought of having to wear some and walk to God knows where, makes me dizzy. I sit down on the bed, ready to give up, as if that were an option.

I only notice Jon standing next to me when he places a pair of heels on the carpet, in front of me. They are pointy in the front, the colour of my skin, and maybe 3 inches high with a thin heel. They seem to be the shortest pair in the entire armoire. I don't look at him when I slide them on. They fit perfectly. An alarm starts to go off in the back of my head, but I ignore it. Jon doesn't offer me his hand as I struggle to my feet. I take a step forward, Jon a step back. I let go of the wall when I reach the door, and I decide to pace the room a couple times before I walk out in these awful things.

I am constantly reminded that I am expected for dinner, and when we do finally leave the room, I find myself surrounded by soldiers. Three stand on my left and three stand on my right, one guards my back and another the front. They all hold two weapons each. Jon is still standing beside me. They all look identical to me, like blank canvases. We move as one, all the way to a huge dinning hall.

There are 7 banquet tables draped across the room, blue silk spilling across the tabletops, crystal vases bursting with orchids and stargazer lilies, glass bowls filled with gardenias. The scene is familiar to me, a memory I want to forget. Warner is positioned at the table directly in the middle, seated at the head, like a king. As soon as he sees us, he stands up. The entire room stands in turn. I notice a wide eyed girl next to him, but I'm distracted as the soldiers break away and take their seats at the nearest banquet table. I'm left with only Jon standing to my right.

We're paused at the entrance to this monstrous room, with the eyes of every being staring at me. The entire space is still and silent, the only noise to be heard is the distinct sound of my heals against the smooth, concrete floor. From afar I see a single chair on his left and I silently sigh. It isn't long before I'm staring at Warner as he pulls out the chair for me. Something in me breaks and I can't look at him anymore, so I look at the chair, then the girl, then the chair, and then I sit.

Warner sits silently next to me, and in turn, the entire room. Jon takes a seat on my left. My posture is perfect as I inspect the room, my eyes gliding over everything as my face is hidden with the help of my hair. Platters of food decorate the tables like ornaments, I don't think about how much of it will go to waste. I feel their eyes on me, I feel Warner's eyes on me. It makes my skin crawl, it takes everything in me not to scream in frustration and run to my freedom.

A tedious moment passes, but finally a sound is made. Unfortunately, it is Warner's voice that interrupts the silence.

"You look incredible, my dear," his voice is loud and sickening, "but it really is unfortunate about your face."

I should have clawed at his face or grabbed his neck when he reached for the hair on the right side of my face and placed it behind me, revealing my cut lip and bruised face. When his hand lingers on my dark hair, I find myself doing nothing but stare at my empty platter.

Warner leans in, "You shouldn't have fought back," his voice quieter than before, but equally as condescending.

Warner fills his plate full of fresh fruit, meat and bread, in turn he fills mine. It's too colourful, unlike anything I've seen in a very long time. I'm hungry, but stupid and stubborn, too. The second I eat this food, I'm his. I look around the room, meeting the eyes of his men. Most of them are here because there is nothing left for them out _there_. Am I the same? I'll never really be free of my past, I'll never be able to find peace. Is this what is best for me? Why am I hiding who I am?

I'm boiling with rage, confusion, selfish thoughts. I'm trapped in hell, and it can only get worse.

I move my hair away from my face and tuck the loose strands behind my ears. I lean back in my chair, placing both of my arms on the rests, unapologetically. I eat a grape, I drink the water poured for me. It's not enough, but I don't eat anymore. I stare at my plate, I contemplate life.

"Are you not hungry?"

"No, thank you."

"Please," I small voice says. "Eat something."

A girl of a similar age to me, leans forward, her bluey green eyes wide. Her long brunette hair spills over her shoulders, revealing a hauntingly beautiful face. For a moment, I wonder if she's willingly here. It wouldn't surprise me that Warner finds the need to have a gorgeous young girl by his side, but by the look on her face and the sad expression in her colourful eyes, I know she is not. She's trapped.

For a moment, I don't take my eyes away from her. I notice her looking at my battered face, and she frowns, slightly. Her long face and fine cheekbones remind me of someone I used to know a long time ago, but I just can't figure out who. She's a distant reminder of a life I want to forget, so in turn, I attempt to overlook the fact that I might have known her. This world is too big and too ugly for coincidences.

It doesn't take me long to realise something isn't right. The room was full of the sound of hungry soldiers, devouring food. The room felt full, but now it's still. I can hear nothing but the odd fork, hitting the edge of a plate a couple tables away. They're looking at me, their eyes wide and waiting. Jon is staring at me from under his lashes. His head is lowered and his brows are pulled together tightly, his eyes are filled with something close to worry.

"Juliette, love," Warner says slowly. "This is Ophelia."


End file.
